


Family Matters

by GhostLightIfYouWill



Category: Chitty Chitty Bang Bang - All Media Types, Trouble in the Heights (2011)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Oral Sex, References to Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:22:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29414808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostLightIfYouWill/pseuds/GhostLightIfYouWill
Summary: Nevada Ramirez and Caractacus Potts have an accidental meeting that creates tensions they struggle to work out. When Caractacus’s children enter the picture, Nevada is unsure if that can even be done.
Relationships: Caractacus Potts/Nevada Ramirez
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18
Collections: Valentine's Day 2021 exchange





	Family Matters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mforpaul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mforpaul/gifts).



> This is the first Nevactacus fic I’ve published, and it was a pleasure to write (although slightly intimidating) for the lovely @mforpaul. Thank you to @whatliesabove for the beta.

Caractacus Potts is tired. Another Friday. Another invention. Another failure. Another night of work.

He settles into the makeshift workshop he’s created in a carefully sectioned off portion in his living area. Back in England, he’d had plenty of space to keep his inventions scattered about with plenty of room to tinker. But here, in New York, the rent is high and the apartments are small. Unwilling to give up his passion — and main source of income — he’d had to quickly adapt. 

He grumbles as he moves around parts and pieces on his machine, trying to fix whatever had gone wrong and embarrassed him in front of a potential investor that very same morning. 

He has an idea on what repairs need to be made, and just as he flips on the switch, there’s a sharp knock on the door. 

“Bloody hell!” Caractacus mutters to himself, annoyed at being taken out of his hyper-focused state. 

He had been making significant progress, twisting and toying with parts that he was sure would fix the problems the executive team had. 

He turns the switch off and goes to the door, opening it hurriedly. Standing there, leaning against the doorway with his arm above his head is a man he doesn’t recognize. In a split second, he flips through the Rolodex of faces in his mind, and he can’t place the man for the life of him, which is concerning considering the amount of familiarity he's exuding. 

“Well, if it isn’t _el conejo blanco_ ,” the man tuts as he looks Caractacus up and down, the smirk on his face revealing that his gaze isn’t innocent by any means. 

He should feel uneasy being the subject of such inspection, but there’s something about this man’s persona that he finds intriguing. Maybe it’s the black leather jacket with a black shirt underneath, cut so that it reveals just a peek of chest hair and a silver cross dangling from a delicate chain. Or maybe it’s just his face, eyes sharp and steely, mouth just a little crooked, a scar above his brow, the way his jaw moves as he works a piece of gum. 

“You gonna invite me in?” the man asks.

“I don’t know who you are.”

“My friends call me _Trujillo_.” 

Caractacus resolves to send the man away and return to his inventions.

“Okay _Tru_ —” 

“But you can call me Nevada,” he cuts him off as he all but pushes past Caractacus, walking confidently into his apartment. 

It’s instantly clear who’s in control here, Nevada’s stride and demeanor instantly claiming Caractacus’s domain as his own. Nevada looks around peremptorily and nods his head slightly. 

“Can I help you?” Caractacus summons up the courage to ask, consciously curbing the hint of annoyance he’s feeling from bleeding into his voice. 

This man — Nevada — certainly looks like he takes no shit and isn’t afraid to fight to get what he wants, and the last thing Caractacus needs is to get into a physical altercation that he’s sure to lose with his kids asleep down the hallway. 

“No, but you can help me. You see, _conejo_ , we’re not friends.” 

“No, we’re not,” Caractacus agrees. “I have no idea who you are or why you’re here, much less why you’re _in_ my apartment, so—” 

“You don’t remember me?” Nevada asks with an exaggerated laugh that resonates within Caractacus’s bones. “He doesn’t remember me! Of course he doesn’t remember me!” he shouts, as if someone else were there to listen to his indignation. 

Caractacus stares at him expectantly, confused, waiting for some sort of explanation. 

“ _Conejo_ , I run this city. And you know what happens when someone fucks with the king of Washington Heights?” 

“No?” 

“Bad things, _conejo_ , very bad things.”

“Okay, but this still doesn’t explain why you’re in my apartment.”

“Relax,” Nevada says, stepping closer to place his hand on Caractacus’s shoulder. “I’m getting there.” 

Caractacus steps back to distance himself from Nevada as his annoyance at the interruption and the invasion of his space bubbles up quickly, overshadowing any sort of apprehension or fear he has.

“I was kind of busy, so if you could get there quickly, I’d appreciate it,” Caractacus says cooly, polite as ever. 

“You ran into me this morning. That jog your memory?” 

“That was you?!” Caractacus asks. 

He flashes back to review the events of the morning: rushing to his meeting, inventions in hand, and running into a man. For Caractacus, the crash had just been a flash of black clothing and some impassioned protest in a language he didn’t understand. He’d thrown back a haphazard but genuine apology as he continued dashing down the sidewalk. Truthfully, he was so swept up in the adrenaline of getting to the meeting and then the crash of having his dreams dashed by the executive board that he hadn’t given it a second thought. 

“That was me,” Nevada confirms. “Which is why I’m here.” 

The puzzle pieces quickly fall into place, and his eyes widen when he reaches the conclusion that he is in trouble with this man, with the king of Washington Heights.

Nevada sneers in response to Caractacus’s obvious realization, and he’s just about to open his mouth when a small, feminine voice interrupts them. Caractacus looks to see his daughter standing in the hallway, dressed in her nightgown and holding her favorite stuffed rabbit. 

“Who’s this, Daddy?” Jemima asks, rubbing sleep from her eyes with her closed fists. 

This was exactly the scenario Caractacus had wanted to avoid, and he needed to solve it quickly. 

“Just a friend of mine,” he reassures her, not missing the sneer on Nevada’s face as he makes that comment. “Go on back to bed.” 

They both watch in silence as she listens, footsteps padding softly down the hallway. When the click of the bedroom door breaks the silence, Caractacus returns his gaze to Nevada, whose gaze is flickering from his incomprehensible mess of inventions in the workshop and back to Caractacus.

“Not sure if I want to keep _conejo_ or call you _Campanita_ . Or maybe _chiflado._ Yeah, I think I’ll call you _chiflado_ instead,” Nevada comments, the off-putting smirk returning again. 

“That sounds rude.”

“It is,” Nevada says, the smirk dropping, replaced by a steely expression and his jaw tightening. “You got a problem with that?” 

“Not at all,” Caractacus says. 

“Good. So. You have a kid,” he comments, tone neutral, entirely unreadable. 

“Two kids. Jeremy and Jemima.”

Caractacus mentally kicks himself. Why the _hell_ would he tell this man that? This man who obviously wants something from him, though he doesn’t exactly know _what_.

“Ah, shame,” he tuts. “Stupid names for kids though.” 

Caractacus opens his mouth to argue, to tell him off for disrespecting the names that had been chosen for his children with much love and care, but he decides against it when he catches Nevada’s threatening expression. 

“Smart choice. Looks like we’ll have to talk another time, huh?”

Caractacus stares at him in silence.

“You not gonna see me out, _chiflado_? Come on, where’s those English manners?” 

“Yes, of course,” Caractacus nearly stutters, moving quickly to open the door. 

Nevada walks across the threshold, leaving Caractacus standing in the doorway.

“Close the door,” he says, simply but with such a subtle firmness that he knows it’s not a request. 

Caractacus complies, and the second he turns around, he’s being grabbed by the lapels and slammed against the door, the contact with the door knocker directly between his shoulder blades knocking the breath out of him. Instinctively, he shuts his eyes tightly. He’s pretty sure he’s hovering at least an inch off the floor. 

“Look at me,” Nevada demands. 

When Caractactus doesn’t give in to the order, Nevada repeats himself, and he listens immediately. He wouldn’t dare disobey. 

“I don’t like saying shit twice. Don’t make me do it again, got it?” 

Caractactus nods fervently, mostly out of fear, though there’s a hint of a feeling he can’t quite place that’s settled low in his belly. 

“You got kids. I respect that. They didn’t do anything wrong, so I won’t do this in front of them.” 

“Do what?” Caractacus asks, still hovering off the ground. 

Nevada releases him, and Caractacus struggles to find his footing. Nevada smooths out his lapels and smacks his chest. 

“You’ll have to wait to find out. Besides, I’m not sure what I want to do with you yet.” 

Nevada leans in closely, so close Caractacus can feel the hot breath and smell the mint of his gum, only slightly masking the scent of coffee and cigars.

“See you around, Crackpot,” he whispers right against the shell of Caractacus’s ear. 

He watches Nevada saunter down the hallway, and when he gets to the elevator, Nevada glances back at him and smiles. 

After catching his breath and straightening his vest, Caractacus goes back inside, feeling thoroughly rattled and confused. He returns to the machine he had been working on before he’d been interrupted and flips the switch again. There is a whirring noise, followed immediately by a sputter, the gears sticking and grinding. He switches the machine off and resigns himself to failure for the evening. With the fog and millions of thoughts and worries of what’s going to happen to him swirling around in his brain faster than he can track them, there’s no way he can get anything done. 

He retires to the bedroom, getting ready for bed, though he dreads the nightmare he’s assured to have following that encounter. As he takes off his clothes, he realizes the scent of Nevada’s cologne is still on his skin. He breathes in deeply, taking in the smell. 

Caractacus visibly recoils when the thought crosses his brain that he’s not actually scared to see Nevada again, that he _wants_ to. And not even in one of his characteristic bursts of curiosity that is accompanied by no regard whatsoever for the possibility of danger. No, this is different, and he can’t quite place it. 

Whatever it is, he decides, he doesn’t like this man very much at all. After all, he’d threatened him and scared him, with his kids in the next room. Caractacus wasn’t so much concerned for himself as he was for the children. He’d always been that way, and Mimsy would chastise him often for that.

He thinks about how she used to fondly say, “Jack, you need to be more careful. You’re going to get yourself killed. And where would we be without you?” 

Funny how things turned out, he thinks, finding himself getting lost in the memories of his wife, as he so often does. He thinks about the sweet things 

But this time, Nevada worms his way into his pleasant, reverent thoughts with echoes of “crackpot” reverberating in his ear, and Caractacus grows to dislike him even more for that, for daring to disrespect the memory of his wife. 

No, he didn’t like Nevada Ramirez at all. 

* * *

The next night, Nevada finds himself standing in one of his warehouses looking around and then looking at his watch, the time ticking by slowly. His men had asked him whether he wanted to meet with the crackpot along, and he had been insistent that the crackpot was a matter he wanted to handle alone. 

And now _chiflado_ is five minutes late. 

Five becomes ten. 

Ten becomes twenty. 

At that point, he considers that Ramon fucked up delivering the note to Caractacus. Just as he’s pulling out his cellphone to call Ramon and chew him out, the metal door to the warehouse clangs shut, ringing throughout the space.

“This a habit of yours, Crackpot?” Nevada calls across the warehouse.

“Is what a habit?” Caractactus asks, rushing over, machines and papers in hands

Nevada rolls his eyes at the man's obliviousness. 

“You being late. I called you the White Rabbit for a reason.”

“Sorry, I was coming from another meeting,” he apologizes, putting down his papers. 

“Come over here,” Nevada demands. Caractacus moves to put the machine down. “No, bring that too.” 

Caractacus walks over slowly, machine in hand.

“Come on, I don’t have all day.” 

“It’s nighttime,” Caractacus comments. 

“You must be fun at parties,” Nevada snarks. 

“I don’t go to many parties, actually.” 

“I was— it was a _joke_ Crackpot. I was making fun of you,” Nevada says, miffed that he has to explain. 

“I know,” Caractacus responds, smiling ever so slightly. 

“Wow, _Chiflado_ is a comedian. You think you’re funny, _chiflado_?”

“My kids think so,” Caractacus says, shrugging. 

“They must have a poor sense of humor then,” Nevada comments dryly.

He looks Caractacus up and down. He’s wearing another plaid vest today, this time in different colors. Nevada has noticed that the eccentricity extends beyond his odd fashion choices. He’s flighty yet intelligent and ingenious, peculiar yet intriguing, altogether weird. These are some things he could look over in a pretty enough man, and Caractacus is certainly pretty enough. 

But the worst part, the part he’s not sure he can overlook, the crackpot has kids. _Kids_ . Not just one but _two_. Two fucking kids. 

He hates kids that aren’t a part of his family. Everyone knows it. All they do is cause trouble. 

And maybe the only worse thing than a kid was a single father. All Nevada sees is baggage. Baggage and hassle. Most of the single parents Nevada has dealt with have been great for a fuck or two, but it would inevitably get messy, leaving Nevada with nothing but regrets.

So no more single fathers, no matter how pretty.

Not even if they’re as pretty as Caractacus Potts. 

Looking at Caractacus, he’s reminded that he’s not here to fantasize about how a peculiar, pretty inventor would look on his knees in front of him; he’s here to settle a debt. 

He holds his hand out expectantly, and Caractacus reluctantly hands the machine over, watching every move Nevada makes intently.

“This is actually kind of neat,” Nevada comments. “What does it do?” 

“It’s a sealing machine. For, uh, packaging.” 

“Show me how it works,” Nevada demands.

“Do you have anything that needs packaged?” Nevada pulls out a small bit of white powder wrapped in loose plastic. “Is that—”

“Yes. Just show me what you can do.” Caractacus stares at him. “The _machine, chiflado,_ the machine.” 

Caractacus places the bag in a slot, fiddles with a few buttons, and the machine does, spitting out a neatly sealed, tightly packed package a few moments later.

“Well, fuck me, it works,” Nevada says, laughing. 

“Of course it does.”

Nevada almost smiles at him as he picks the machine back up. 

As he toys with the object, he considers how he’s going to make Caractacus pay his debt, and the skill he seems to have with imagination and mechanics seems like an excellent one to take advantage of. This little machine in particular could be particularly useful when it comes to distribution. As he considers the practicality of this, he manipulates one of the parts and encounters some tension. He pushes slightly, and there’s a snap. As it breaks, Caractacus winces. He looks down at the piece in his hand. 

“Can I have that back, please?” Caractacus asks.

It’s polite and timid, and there’s a slight tinge of sadness in his voice. Nevada hands the machine to him without a word. 

“Are you going to hit me yet? I’d like to go home to my children and fix my machine.”

Nevada avoids thinking about how he never even had the urge to hit that man after the night they first met even though violence is his default. He’s watched people beg for their lives before and not felt an ounce of remorse. He’s beat up men with families before. But the man standing before him is… different. 

“No, you can go,” he finds himself saying. 

“I’d really rather you just get it over with so I can move on.” 

“I’m not going to do anything to you. Go home to your children.” 

Nevada tells himself that he’s just choosing to show mercy because he _can_. He reassures himself that he has the power, and there’s no other reason for letting him go than mercy. 

“Oh,” Caractacus mumbles, moving toward his things. “Thank you.” 

“Sorry about the— your machine.” 

Nevada surprises himself at how genuinely sorry he is. 

Caractacus looks back and smiles softly before collecting his things. 

“It’s okay.” 

Nevada watches him walk away and finds himself hoping that Caractacus would look back. He’s slightly disappointed when he doesn’t, but he shakes it off. He’s Nevada Ramirez, and Nevada Ramirez gets what he wants. 

* * *

The next afternoon, Caractacus comes home after another failed invention pitch to a rather large package at his door. He takes it inside and examines it carefully. It’s quite heavy, but it’s packed neatly. There is no address at all, meaning it had to have been hand-delivered. He hasn’t been expecting anything, so he’s overwhelmed with curiosity. 

He opens the package and on top is a handwritten note.

“ _Lo siento._ Flowers are stupid. Here’s something you can use.” 

The note was signed with a single letter: N. He smiles and places the note on the table. 

In the box is the part that Nevada broke. And more. There are other gears and cogs and a number of other various mechanical parts, all of a caliber that Caractacus couldn’t afford. 

All Caractacus sees, though, is the possibilities. He can fix his broken machine, and improve so many others, and make new ones. He makes a mad dash for his sketchbook, the ideas flowing from his brain through the pen to the paper. 

When his ideas are finally down, he stops to consider what had just happened, not the flurry of excitement of infinite possibilities. But the fact that Nevada Ramirez sent him something. And not just _something_. Something actually meaningful. As an apology. 

This package and the thought behind it only confirms that he was wrong to feel afraid of Nevada, that there’s something soft underneath a tough exterior. Admittedly, he’d caught a glimpse of it toward the end of their last encounter, but he’d thought maybe it was a one-off. 

But maybe it wasn’t.

Against his better judgment, Caractacus immediately writes a thank you letter in a scrawl that he hopes Nevada can make out. Mimsy always used to chastise him for that. 

In the note, he thanks him and invites him over, so that he can thank him in person. He signs the note “ _chiflado_ ” with a flourish.

All night, Caractacus ruminates on whether he should send the letter. On one hand, he should feel guilty. The way he’s behaving is disrespectful to Mimsy’s memory. But it doesn’t stop the urge or the intention or the feeling. He falls asleep unsure, with that thought rattling around in his brain. 

And in his dream, he meets Mimsy, and they talk. 

The next morning, Caractacus puts the note in the mail with a smile. 

* * *

Nevada is shocked to receive the note from Caractacus, and he’s even more shocked that he finds himself in the elevator of Caractacus’s building a few nights later. 

“Hello,” Caractacus greets him, moving to let him into the apartment. 

“Crackpot! You said you wanted to thank me?”

Nevada turns around to look at Caractacus, and Caractacus kisses him. It’s so fast and sudden that Nevada doesn’t have time to react or kiss back. The only thing he can do is stare in shock as Caractacus bites his lip. The tension between them is palpable, but Nevada isn’t sure whether it’s sexual or just plain awkward.

“I’m sorry if I misread—” Caractacus starts.

“You didn’t. I just didn’t know you were—” 

“I am.” 

“But your kids—”

“I’m… flexible,” he offers, choosing his words carefully. 

Nevada nods slowly. 

“Speaking of the kids—”

“They’re not here. Choir practice.” 

“Oh. _Oh_.” 

“Only if you want to.” 

“Of course I want to.” 

And much to Nevada’s surprise, Caractacus takes the lead. Nevada is very aware that he’s off his game. He should have seen this coming from a mile away, but something about Caractacus had been keeping him on his toes and had given him blinders. He can’t get over the way Caractacus seems to be reading his mind and finishing his sentences, and he’s even more confused about why that doesn’t annoy him. 

Everything is moving in slow motion in the best way possible as Caractacus leads him to the bedroom and gently guides him to the bed pushing him back gently, climbing on top. He undresses him with care, peppering kisses on every inch of Nevada’s skin. Each touch of Caractacus’s lips leave behind an electric buzz, turning his body warm, turning his head fuzzy. 

As Caractacus kisses down his chest and belly, stopping to nuzzle at his happy trail, Nevada feels like he’s being taken care of, not _taken care of._ That’s a new feeling.

Caractacus guides Nevada’s hands to his hair, a silent permission as Caractacus unbuttons his jeans. His grip tightens the further Caractacus goes, the closer he gets, the higher Caractacus takes him, until all of a sudden he’s _there_ and then falling, only to be caught gently by Caractacus. 

He takes Nevada’s hand from his hair and kisses it gently, looking up at him, eyes wide and wet. 

“I don’t usually—” Nevada starts, glancing downward at Caractacus’s obvious hard-on. 

“You don’t have to. I’m fine,” Caractacus assures him, pushing himself to a standing position. 

“I feel bad,” Nevada blurts, uncharacteristic guilt rearing its head. 

“I already said you don’t have to.” 

All of a sudden Nevada is out of his body and into his head, moving and speaking without control.

“I never feel bad,” he mutters. “I’m going to go.” 

Nevada buttons up his jeans and leaves in a hurry, without even looking back. 

It’s not until later he realizes that he left his jacket behind. He briefly considers just leaving it there and buying a new one, but he finds himself at Caractacus’s apartment the next night. 

“You’re here for your jacket,” Caractacus says evenly when he opens the door. 

“No. Well, yes. But no. I owe you an apology.” 

“Nevada Ramirez apologizing?” 

“I’ve apologized to you before. This is the second time.” 

“I know,” Caractacus says. “I was joking.” 

“No. I know that. But that’s the point. Because I don’t _do_ that. I don’t do apologies or feelings or—”

“You’re rambling. Say what you mean,” Caractacus encourages. 

For some reason, that’s enough for Nevada to collect his thoughts and share them before he loses the nerve.

“I think I like you.” 

“I like you too. I thought I made that clear the other night.” 

“You did. That’s why I left.” 

“Because I— ”

“I don’t do this,” Nevada repeats. 

“Do what?” 

“This,” he repeats, gesturing between the two of them. 

“Casual sex?” Caractacus tries. 

“No, that’s my thing.” 

“So, sex with feelings?” 

“That’s it.” 

“That’s okay. We don’t have to. It can just be a one time thing. My feelings aren’t hurt.” 

The statement is genuine, and Nevada finds it oddly comforting, comforting enough to lower his defense and take a leap of faith. 

“No, I’d like to try to do it.”

“Okay. Yeah, of course. Nevada Ramirez is no coward.” 

“You can call me _Trujillo_ ,” Nevada says with a smile. 

“How about _papi_?” Caractacus asks, wiggling his eyebrows. 

“Even better,” Nevada replies, his smirk turning into a more lustful glare. 

Caractacus responds by kissing him deeply. Hands quickly move to explore each others’ bodies and vests and jackets come off, left in a pile on the floor. When they finally pull back, they’re breathing heavily, foreheads pressed together as they stare into each other's eyes, green meeting gray, pupils blown. 

“Wanna take this to the bedroom?” Caractacus asks.

“Lead the way, crackpot.” 

* * *

After that night, Nevada comes over after the children have gone to bed. It’s usually quick and dirty, something Caractacus never thought he would enjoy, but somehow Nevada makes it one of the greatest experiences in the world, every single time.

Nevada always sleeps over, keeping Caractacus warm and safe throughout the night, but he always slips out before he or the children wake up. After a while, Nevada finds himself coming over with the intention to sleep together, but then they just talk until they fall asleep almost like they forgot about their arrangement. And then Nevada comes over just for that, not to sleep with Caractacus but to sleep next to him.

The next time they have an entire night alone, Nevada comes over, and they take their time, drawing out each others’ pleasure and exploring, deeper than they’d ever gone before. And if Caractacus is honest, this would be the first time he’d describe one of their encounters as making love. It’s new, to connect with someone in that way, in a way that he’d only ever experienced with Mimsy. He thinks about that, and this time he doesn’t even feel a twinge of guilt. 

“Stay the night,” Caractacus says that night, curled up tight against Nevada, who is drawing lazy patterns on Caractacus’s skin. 

“I stay the night every night,” he says sleepily.

“Well then stay for breakfast.” 

“But the kids—”

“I know,” Caractacus says, sure as he’s ever been. 

“Okay,” he says with a nod and kiss pressed into Caractacus’s hair. 

They fall asleep holding each other, but when Caractacus wake 

His heart drops into his stomach until he goes into the kitchen to find the children at the table with breakfast in front of them. They’re eating happily, and Nevada is at the sink. He looks up to see Caractus there and slides a mug of coffee over to him. 

“Good morning,” Nevada says. 

“You figured out the breakfast machine.” 

“And the coffee machine,” he says gesturing to the mug.

“I’m impressed,” he comments, taking a sip.

“Don’t be. The kids had to help me.” 

“What did you tell them?” Caractacus asks in a hushed tone. 

“I told them that I just slept here last night. No details. That okay?”

“That’s lovely,” he says with a wide grin and kisses Nevada on the cheek. “My kids are quite the little helpers.” 

“They’re something.” Caractacus raises an eyebrow. “I hate them.” 

His expression turns serious. If this is going to continue, if he’s going to seriously introduce Nevada to his kids and keep him around, he has to be clear. 

“I’m kidding. Sort of.” 

Caractacus accepts it, and as time goes on, he becomes even more confident in that decision, seeing the way Nevada acts with Jeremy and Jemima. 

The stays over and days over become frequent so that more often than not, Nevada is at Caractacus’s place. Soon, they’ve moved in together, and Nevada even hangs out with the kids in the afternoons when Caractacus is busy. 

Caractacus is out late on a Tuesday night, and he comes home to find Nevada and the children in their bedroom, getting into bed.

He waits in the doorway, just observing as Nevada tucks Jemima into bed handing her her stuffed rabbit, tattered and worn, the stuffing mostly gone. 

“What’s its name?” Nevada asks. 

“Popsy!”

“Well, Popsy looks a little tired.”

“She’s as old as I am. Do you know where I got it?” she asks excitedly. 

“No, I don’t.” 

“My mum gave me Popsy.”

“That was really nice of her.” 

“Our mum was really nice,” Jeremy pipes up from his bed. 

“I bet she was. I know your dad is a very nice man, so your mother had to be something special.” 

Caractacus feels his heart swelling until it drops when Jeremy opens his mouth again. 

“You remind me of Mum, Nevada.”

Nevada’s body stiffens, but he stays crouched between their beds, holding their hands. 

“I do?” 

“Yeah! She was bad at cooking too. And she told good stories too, just like you do.”

“You telling me my cooking is bad?” 

He looks back and forth from Jeremy and Jemima and then playfully tickles them each in turn. 

“Yep!” Jemima giggles. “ _Just_ like Mummy.” 

Nevada’s expression softens.

“Thank you. That means a lot. Now go to sleep. I’ll cook you a bad breakfast in the morning.”

Caractacus is enraptured watching Nevada interact with his children and seeing the small smile Nevada has and the tears in his eyes when he glances back to see Caractacus in the doorway. He could get used to this, he thinks. 

And he does.

  
  
  



End file.
